


your hands (they move beautifully)

by Rianne



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Busking, Cellist, Cellist Combeferre, Deaf Character, Deaf Courfeyrac, M/M, Sign Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:21:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3263135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rianne/pseuds/Rianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every Tuesday and Thursday, the gorgeous busker with the beautiful hands is playing his cello at Courfeyrac's métro stop. Courfeyrac can't stop watching him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your hands (they move beautifully)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kiyala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [your hands (they move beautifully)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8536495) by [CamSanders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamSanders/pseuds/CamSanders)



> Kiyala (and everyone else), I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to my betas Caroline, Marnel, and Janne for helping me fix up this fic.

**Courfeyrac:** just saw him again

 **Enjolras:** I think it should worry both of us that I know who you’re talking about.

 **Courfeyrac:** i don’t talk about him that much

 **Enjolras:** Yes you do.

Courfeyrac chuckles at his phone and settles deeper into his seat. He’s having a good day. For one thing, he’s been able to secure a seat on the métro even though it’s rush hour. It’s still uncomfortable, in the way that the métro rarely fails to be. There are people pressed up against him – someone’s shoulder is rubbing against his jacket, and the man who’s leaning against a pole just in front of him bumps against his knee whenever the train brakes or speeds up. There’s movement everywhere. People sway with the motions of the carriage or tap fingers and feet against the nearest surface as if it could make their commute go any faster. It’s been raining this morning, filling the carriage with the smell of wet clothes and the sight of brightly coloured fold-up umbrellas. But at least Courfeyrac is sitting, so he doesn’t have to worry about being in people’s way or bumping into someone when the train unexpectedly slows down or speeds up.

The other reason for Courfeyrac’s good mood is that his favourite busker was back at the usual spot this morning, after a week of unexplained absence.

A few months ago, Courfeyrac was in the habit of arriving at his métro stop in the nick of time. Getting out of bed is one of his least favourite things to do, so he’d inevitably get up too late, take a two-minute shower, eat a rushed breakfast, sprint to the métro station, and jump onto his train with seconds to spare. Now, though, he gets up ten minutes earlier every Tuesday and Thursday, because those are the days when the beautiful cellist is playing on the métro platform.

If he had to guess, Courfeyrac would say the cellist was about his age, maybe a year or two older. The man has dark hair and brown skin. He’s taller than Courfeyrac. (He’s always sitting when Courfeyrac sees him, of course, but he can still tell. Besides, most people are taller than Courfeyrac.) He’s always smiling just a little bit while he plays. Once, two children started dancing to his music, and the cellist had grinned delightedly, which was probably the moment Courfeyrac really fell for him.

He pulls out his phone again, running his fingers over the smooth, bright pink leather of its protective case. Enjolras is studying in the library (Courfeyrac does not understand why people without 9:00 am classes would get up this early, but Enjolras has always been a bit of a mystery), so he’ll probably start ignoring his phone in a minute. There’s not much else to do while he rides the métro, though, so Courfeyrac texts him anyway.

 **Courfeyrac:** maybe i do talk about him a lot

 **Courfeyrac:** but he’s the best cellist ever

 **Enjolras:** You’re deaf. You literally cannot tell.

 **Courfeyrac:** but his haNDS THOUGH

Enjolras doesn’t text back after that, so he’s probably turned off his phone to concentrate on his books. Courfeyrac sighs and puts his phone away – it’s only a few more stops to the university anyway.

Enjolras sort of has a point. It’s probably pretty weird that he sacrifices twenty minutes of sleep every week to go see a musician he can’t hear. He can’t help it, though; he’s utterly addicted to watching the busker’s hands. The man has long, lean fingers that Courfeyrac can’t look away from no matter how much he tries. When the busker plays, his fingers seem to dance across the strings. It really doesn’t matter that Courfeyrac can’t hear the music – those hands are a form of art themselves.

He’s pretty sure the busker has noticed him. It’s probably hard to miss. Other people can listen from a distance, but Courfeyrac needs to stand close to see the man’s hands at work in the dim light of the dingy métro station. Sometimes the busker looks up and their eyes meet. Courfeyrac always looks away as fast as he can when that happens, but he’s pretty sure the man knows his face by now.

\--

A few weeks later on a Friday, Courfeyrac has an extra class in the afternoon. He takes the métro back home afterwards. Barely anyone is on the métro at this time of day. He plops himself down in a seat and takes out his phone. When he looks up, he realises that he’s somehow ended up in the seat across from the busker, whom he’s never seen outside of Tuesday and Thursday mornings.

Courfeyrac has noticed that the busker wears glasses some days, while on others he presumably wears contacts. He’s never been close enough to see the dark brown of his eyes, though. He has an undercut, but despite how short his hair is, it still manages to look messy. With his casual jacket and frayed jeans, he looks so perfect it makes Courfeyrac want to cry.

The busker is looking back at him and smiling, and Courfeyrac can’t help smiling back. He quickly ducks his head down, uncharacteristically shy. When he peeks up again a few seconds later, he’s just in time to see the busker’s lips move. The man looks at him questioningly. He’s obviously just asked him something, but Courfeyrac is too late to read the question off his lips. Courfeyrac grimaces, holding up a hand as he quickly rummages through his bag and pulls out a pen and a notebook.

 _I’m deaf_ , he writes, flipping the notebook over so the other can see what he’s written.

The busker’s eyebrows lift in surprise, and Courfeyrac prepares for the look of pity that usually follows this kind of statement, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the man reaches out and plucks notebook and pen from Courfeyrac’s fingers. His deft hands move quickly across the page, and when he hands it back, Courfeyrac reads, _Do you sign?_

He nods hopefully. The man smiles, puts down the notebook, and lifts his hands. _I’m not very good,_ he signs.

That’s true enough; Courfeyrac can immediately tell he’s not a native signer. He doesn’t care, though, smiling widely as he signs back, _Still much better than writing._

The man frowns in concentration as he deciphers Courfeyrac’s movements, but after a moment, he nods. _I agree_ , he signs. It’s still a little stiff, and he’s using a very small signing space, but it’s communication. Courfeyrac couldn’t be more excited.

 _How come you can sign?_ he asks.

The answer is hesitant; the man is clearly concentrating hard on his words. Courfeyrac is distracted by the thought that his hands are even more beautiful when he’s signing. _I like sign language. I learned when I was in high school. I was bored. It seemed like fun._

 _Nerd_ , Courfeyrac signs before he can think it through. He has no idea if that kind of teasing is appreciated, or even understood – the nuances of sign language aren’t always obvious to new signers. Before he has a chance to regret it, though, the man across from him laughs. His laugh is even more beautiful than his smile.

 _What’s your name?_ Courfeyrac signs. People around them have noticed and are watching, but Courfeyrac is used to the stares. It’s part and parcel of being deaf. His disability is invisible enough that it gets him into trouble sometimes, yet it’s also visible enough for people to stare.

The man thinks about it for a moment, probably because he’s not sure how to work his name into LSF. In the end, he fingerspells c-o-m-b-e-f-e-r-r-e. He seems more used to the manual alphabet than to actual LSF, which is interesting. Combeferre gestures at him to indicate he should sign his name back.

Courfeyrac fingerspells his name, then adds _, In French, at least. In sign, I go by_ – He adds his name sign, which Enjolras came up with when they’d just met in high school.

 _Sun?_ Combeferre signs back, frowning.

Courfeyrac shakes his head. _This is sun_ , he signs, carefully making the _sun_ sign – his hand just above his shoulder, fingers curved as if he’s gripping a ball. _And this is me_. He repeats the sign for his name. His hand is in the same place, but he curves his fingers differently, shaping his hand into the C of the manual alphabet and angling his hand slightly more toward his face. _They’re similar but it’s not the same._

Combeferre nods and repeats his name back to him. Seeing his name on Combeferre’s hands sends butterflies to Courfeyrac’s stomach. Courfeyrac smiles at him, and he smiles back, the corners of his eyes crinkling. After a moment, Combeferre starts signing again. _I’ve seen you at the station when I play._ At Courfeyrac’s nod, he adds, _Why? If you can’t hear._

Courfeyrac can feel a blush creep up his cheeks. _I like watching your hands_ , he admits, getting through the signs as fast as he can because he doesn’t want to prolong the embarrassment.

Of course, that means Combeferre can’t follow and Courfeyrac is forced to repeat himself more slowly. When Combeferre understands, he blushes beneath his dark skin and looks away. Courfeyrac bites his lip, wishing he’d made up a different reason instead. Now Combeferre probably thinks he’s some kind of creep.

After a moment, however, Combeferre looks up again and signs, _What do you do_?

 _I’m a student_ , he responds.

Combeferre smiles and asks, _What do you study_?

 _I do law_ , he responds.

That’s a sign Combeferre doesn’t know, and he ends up fingerspelling it. Combeferre signs the word back to him, nodding in understanding.

 _I’m a student, too_ , he signs. _I do…_ His hands hover in the air for a moment as he thinks. Then his expression clears and he signs, _medicine. I study medicine._

That’s when Courfeyrac looks outside and sees that the train is pulling up at his station. _My stop_ , he signs hastily, stuffing his notebook into his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. _See you around?_

Combeferre smiles at him. _Bye, Courfeyrac_ , he signs, the name hesitant but correct.

Courfeyrac grins back at him and signs his own goodbye. He doesn’t have a name sign for Combeferre yet, so he improvises, throwing together the letter C with the sign for _cellist_. If Combeferre’s grin is anything to go by, he got the message.

\--

 **Courfeyrac:** HE KNOWS LSF

 **Courfeyrac:** I SAW HIM ON THE TUBE AND HE TALKED TO ME AND I FOUND OUT HE CAN SIGN

 **Enjolras:** Calm down.

 **Courfeyrac:** HWO CAN i BE CLAM

 **Courfeyrac** : enjolras he taught himself to sign because he was bored in school

 **Courfeyrac** : he is literally perfect

 **Courfeyrac** : his hands when he signs i cannot even tell you

 **Courfeyrac:** when are you coming home i need someone to gush to

 **Enjolras** : Half an hour.

Courfeyrac tosses his phone down on the bed beside him and falls back against the pillows. His heart is still beating fast in his chest. He’s properly met the man he’s been admiring for months, and what’s more, they can actually communicate. He can’t believe his luck. Of course, he’s also made himself look like a total weirdo by admitting he likes watching Combeferre’s hands. Combeferre still talked to him after that, though, so he probably hasn’t ruined things too badly.

True to form, Enjolras comes home within the half hour and is willing to provide an audience to Courfeyrac’s excited stories. The two of them met when Courfeyrac transferred from his primary school for the deaf and hard of hearing to a mainstream high school. Enjolras’ parents are both deaf, though Enjolras is hearing, and he was the only other person in school who was fluent in LSF. That wouldn’t have been a guarantee for friendship, but they ended up bonding over their shared love of the Harry Potter books and their similar tastes in movies.

After Courfeyrac has gushed about Combeferre for a while, they make dinner together. Enjolras is a terrible cook and needs supervision or he’ll burn any food he touches. When the kitchen is filled with the smell of curry – Enjolras chopped the vegetables, Courfeyrac made the sauce – Enjolras asks, _Are you going to ask him out?_

Courfeyrac sighs. _Maybe_ , he responds.

_You like this guy._

_He might not like me,_ Courfeyrac signs.

 _Yeah, that’s why he started talking to you on the train,_ Enjolras signs, one eyebrow raised.

 _He might not like me that way_ , he amends. _He might not be into guys_. Besides, even if he is, he might still not be into Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac has dated before, but only ever with deaf people. With Combeferre, there will be language barriers and culture barriers, and that’s assuming Combeferre is even willing to date someone who’s deaf.

 _Only one way to find out_ , Enjolras responds.

 _There’s probably more than one way to find out_.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. _Courfeyrac. Ask him out._

 _Maybe_ , Courfeyrac allows.

\--

He doesn’t see Combeferre all weekend, of course, even though he’s on the métro a few more times. On Tuesday morning, he’s up far too early and then spends all his extra time worrying. Won’t it be weird to go see Combeferre play, now that he knows Courfeyrac can’t actually hear it? What if Combeferre has decided he’s creepy and moved his busking to some other station?

Enjolras sticks his head around Courfeyrac’s door. He flashes the lights to get Courfeyrac’s attention from where he’s face-down on the bed, consumed with worry. _Would you just go?_ he signs.

 _Fine_ , Courfeyrac responds, rolling off the bed and grabbing his bag. He spends the five-minute walk to the métro station trying to keep his heart rate under control.

When he gets to the platform, Combeferre is sitting on his usual folding chair, his eyes on his cello. Underneath his black jacket, he’s wearing a purple shirt today that contrasts wonderfully with his dark skin. It’s probably just Courfeyrac’s massive crush talking, but Combeferre seems to stand out against the dinginess of the graffiti-filled métro station walls.

Courfeyrac leans against a pillar, close enough to be able to see as always. Combeferre’s long fingers are moving across the strings, his bow sliding back and forth in a soothing rhythm. A few people are gathered around, as is often the case when Combeferre is playing. It’s the only real indication Courfeyrac has that Combeferre is actually a good cellist.

Combeferre looks up, and his eyes meet Courfeyrac’s almost immediately. “Hi,” he mouths, because he’s not exactly in a position where he can sign.

Courfeyrac waves at him, and Combeferre smiles. Courfeyrac watches him as he finishes the piece he’s playing, his bow slowing until he finally pulls it away from the strings. One of the people in the audience says something, and Courfeyrac sees Combeferre’s lips shape around a “thank you” before he starts playing again.

Every now and then, he looks up at Courfeyrac. A métro train passes by, sending gusts of wind through Courfeyrac’s curls, but Combeferre plays on undeterred. A few minutes later, the next piece is finished, and Combeferre meets Courfeyrac’s eyes and beckons him closer. Courfeyrac’s heart threatens to jump out of his chest. Behind him, the train he’s supposed to take pulls up to the platform. Combeferre’s audience dissipates, as most of the people get on the train and the others wander off further down the platform to await their train. Courfeyrac decides he can afford to be late to class once. He steps closer to Combeferre.

 _How are you?_ Combeferre signs. His movements are smoother than they were last week, and Courfeyrac chuckles.

_Have you been practising your sign language?_

_Maybe_ , Combeferre responds, smiling. _And a good thing, too. I realised I’ve been confusing the signs for duck and work. That could’ve been awkward._

Courfeyrac grins. _Feeding the works in the pond?_

 _Too much duck to do_ , Combeferre signs back.

Courfeyrac laughs out loud, and then immediately claps a hand over his mouth. He’s seen enough people staring in the past to know that his laughter sounds weird. These days, he usually keeps it quiet, or as quiet as he knows how to, unless he’s alone with deaf friends or with Enjolras.

He feels his cheeks heat up in embarrassment, but Combeferre steps closer and gently reaches up to take Courfeyrac’s hand in his. Tentatively, he runs his thumb over the back of Courfeyrac’s hand, and Courfeyrac can barely breathe. Maybe he should’ve known Combeferre’s hands would feel amazing, given the way they look, but it’s still mind-numbingly unexpected. His skin is soft, but Courfeyrac can feel callouses (caused by cello-playing, no doubt) against his fingers. Combeferre’s hand is warm despite the chilly weather.

Combeferre lifts his other hand and then stops, and Courfeyrac can _see_ him try to figure out how to sign without letting go of Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac is going to have to teach him one-handed signing.

He takes a deep breath, pulls his hand out of Combeferre’s, and signs, _I was wondering if you want to get coffee with me some time._

His heart hammers in his chest, but after a moment, Combeferre’s smile widens. _Like a date?_ he verifies, and Courfeyrac nods. _I’d love to_. _Tomorrow afternoon? I know a nice place. Give me your number, I’ll text the address._

Courfeyrac hastens to program his number into the phone Combeferre offers. For a moment, they just look at each other. Courfeyrac wants to slide his hand back into Combeferre’s, feel those fingers against his own, but he’s not sure how to ask. _Play me something_ , he signs on a whim.

 _I don’t know what looks good_ , Combeferre signs.

Courfeyrac is sure he’s blushing furiously, but he ploughs through. _Anything._

Combeferre nods and picks up his bow. After a moment’s deliberation, he starts playing.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't actually know any LSF (Langue des Signes Française, in case you were wondering) and I also barely speak any French, so it was a bit of a challenge to look up the appropriate signs. I hope I didn't mess anything up or unwittingly described signs that actually don't make sense. If anyone knows LSF and has any suggestions, I'd love to hear it!
> 
> Please let me know what you thought :)
> 
> My [tumblr](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com/).


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